At it again
At it again is an American silent movie, produced by Keystone, released on 4 november 1912 (in USA), Black & White.
Survival status: unknown.
Cast
- Jidxxx : xxx
Reviews
At It Again
By Lulu Montanye
Not the least bit put out by the sudden termination of his dazzling, but, on the whole, unsuccessful career in New York, Myred Face, gentleman detective, crossed the Continent to Los Angeles, and opened offices there for the detection of crime and of baffling mysteries in those intricate cases that were so often woodenly handled by the police. As he had settled deep in his ulster in the Pullman, he had realized, with delight, that his inseparable side-partner and fellow sleuth, Sack Mennet, was not his traveling companion. The fact is that he had deliberately shook him.
They had worked out together their first famous cases, braving the perils of high society and the underworld, but then, suddenly, had come reverses. They had bungled some highly important cases, and, henceforth, Face, the more daring of the two, had decided to start a clean slate, alone.
He had barely established himself in his new quarters, when a tall, thin man, dressed as a steam-fitter's helper, presented himself, and started belaboring his office radiator with a hammer. It was in August, and melting hot, with the windows thrown open, and Face stood the mechanic's pother as well as he could.
Presently he got up softly, crossed over back of his peace-disturber, and looked fixedly at the kneeling man's shoes. They were of a stylish last, but caked with mud on the soles.
"Ah!" said Face, in an even tone, "it is Sack Mennet, and no other."
The noise on the radiator ceased, and the tall mechanic turned a sheepish, injured face toward the speaker.
"Yes," he admitted, slowly, "it's me — but how did you spot me, Myred?"
"It was the acme of simplicity, bonehead," answered Face. "The noise at the radiator apprised me that some one was in the office, the inappropriateness of a steam-fitter in August warned me of a disguise, and I had only to notice the caked mud on your soles to complete the discovery."
"I had first thought of appearing as an iceman," began Mennet, somewhat sadly, "but that role has been done to death.
"Tell me, Myred," he burst out eagerly, "what the mud on my soles——"
"Nothing more simple. That particular kind of mud is found in quantity only around the excavation of the New York subway. As soon as I recognized it——"
"But I've brushed my shoes repeatedly since then," protested Mennet.
"It makes no difference," said Face. "Why argue ? With your lack of theory and imagination, you will never make a great detective."
The late steam-fitter was silent for a long moment.
"At any rate," he resumed, "I found you again — give me credit for that."
"Yes," admitted Face; "you have me there. How did you do it?"
"I will begin in the categorical method," said Mennet, sententiously, "by asking you: Do you remember the chauffeur who drove you to the Penn. Railroad Station?"
"I do not, nor never will. I walked to the Central."
"Oh, punctures ! Have it your own way. Do you happen to remember the organ-grinder who followed you on foot, then?"
"Yes," said Face, puffing excitedly on his calabash. "Was it you?"
"Certainly, fathead!" cried Mennet, triumphantly, "and the handorgan was nothing but my trunk, ready .packed. I had but to jump on the Pullman, change clothes——"
"S-s-h!" said Face, suddenly.
"Did you hear a step on the stair?"
"Let me investigate," said Mennet, his instincts aroused.
"No; by the time you have found a clew on the stairs, the person will have moved either up or down."
It was as Face had predicted. The sound of hurried feet continued on up the stairs, and, presently, a knock came upon the door.
"A woman," said Mennet; "no one else would knock on an unlocked door."
Face seated himself at his desk, rustled some documents sharply, then called out : "Come in."
The door opened, and a diminutive young lady, with a very flushed face, advanced timidly into the office.
"Is this the office of Mr. Myred Face?" she inquired.
"I am he," said Face, with a slight inclination of his head.
She looked wonderingly at the easy attitude of the steam-fitter in a Morris chair.
"Pray be seated," said Myred, hurriedly, "and do not be embarrassed at the presence of my coworker, Mr. Mennet, who has just returned from a highly important investigation of the organ-grinders' union."
"Steam-fitters," corrected Mr. Mennet.
"I have come to consult you," she began, "about the actions of my husband, Mr. Nehemiah Smith." She paused to brush a fugitive tear from her peachblow cheek, which made the steam-fitter sigh in a hollow manner.
"Mother," she resumed, "always wanted me to marry a middle-aged man — she said I was too romantic — so I finally fell for the attentions of Nehemiah, who was the proprietor of the swellest barber shop in town. All went well — Nemmy was a model husband, until he decided to increase his business by carrying a line of theatrical wigs for chemical blondes. From that day," she faltered, "Nemmy has not been the same."
"Calm yourself," said Face, gallantly. "It is shockingly cruel — I, too " He left off abruptly, his head bowed with memories.
Mennet came to his rescue. "My colleague's researches," he began, "in the field of chemistry have been profound. She was the dearest old lady !" he exclaimed, and ended, as Face glowered at him fiercely.
"What made me decide to consult you," said the little lady, abruptly, "was the receipt of this unsigned letter, which intimates that Mr. Smith has transferred his affections."
Face took the sheet of scented notepaper which she held out to him, and scrutinized it closely thru his magnifying-glass.
"To the profession which honors me," he said, "this simple missive whispers a hundred little stories; but, first, let me ask you : Have you consulted the police department?"
She shook her glossy curls emphatically.
"Then," advised Face, "there is no time to be lost. In the detection of crime — or in this case, let us hope, only a passing fancy—there is, nothing so inconspicuous as the conspicuous. We will, therefore, proceed to track your
